


It's a Cliche Because it Works

by candyvan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Cheerleaders, Cliche, Epilepsy, F/F, Football, Gender Roles, Sexism, that's all this is folks, weird american fake!rugby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyvan/pseuds/candyvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erica's a talented wide receiver who is envied and hated for her drive and stubbornness. Throw in Lydia Martin, cheerleader and all around goddess, and you've got the makings of a teen movie on your hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's a Cliche Because it Works

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanofchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/gifts).



> I've been promising you this for a little over a year now! And it's still not done!!!! We're amazing at writing and sticking to schedules!!! I love us. Anyway, happy birthday, I tried to put a little bit of everything you like in here and I? Hope I succeeded? I love yooooooou, you're the greatesssssst. 
> 
> **I'm so sorry if I got epilepsy wrong! I did a bit of research but the internet isn't always 100% right. Please tell me if I got something wrong or offended anyone!**

It's only the first week of Junior year and Erica is already staring at a bold, disappointing C- in her Economics class. It's ridiculous; there's only been three assignments so far and one of them was to get her parents to sign a form. Boyd stares at her most recent quiz with a raised eyebrow and a sigh, looking at her like she's the most pathetic person in the entire universe.

Cora isn't too far behind him on that stance.

“A 72%?” She asks incredulously, “How do you even get that this early in the year?”

“There might've been some reading I forgot to do,” Erica shrugs, keeping her voice airy and light so as not to clue her friends in on just how much she's freaking out about the grade.

If she had missed one more question, she wouldn't be able to play in the game tomorrow, and, as scary is the thought of going out on that field is again, the thought of not being given the choice is even more so. Erica worked damn hard to get a spot on the team, and the fact that last year she was a Sophomore on the Varsity team says a lot about just how good she is.

She can't believe she almost threw her chance to play away, all because-

“Let me guess,” Boyd rumbles, bringing Erica back into the conversation, “It's because Martin is in your class, isn't it?”

Cora's eyes narrow at her, suddenly a lot more interested in the conversation than she was two seconds ago, “Is that true?”

Erica blanks, meeting their twin, angry stares with wide eyes.

“What?” She sputters, voice bordering on hysterical, “That's- no, come on, Lydia probably took Econ, like, Freshman year, or something, don't be-”

“I saw her when I was bringing Finstock my jersey form today, remember?” Boyd reminds her evenly, not even blinking. Erica thinks Boyd should be a lawyer, with his deep stare and all knowing omniscience. It's like he rips the answers out of her soul sometimes. “She sits right in front of you, Erica.”

“And you didn't tell me?” Cora demands, finally breaking eyes with Erica. Her mouth is a thin frown as she looks up at her boyfriend, and Erica relaxes minutely, thankful to have her attention so easily diverted.

“I wanted a dramatic reveal,” Boyd deadpans.

Cora, seeming to accept his reasoning, goes back to sipping her grape soda. Erica watches as Boyd steals a chip from her bag, slipping the entire thing in his mouth. He grins around the chip as Cora makes a disgusted face.

Erica decides she will never understand their relationship.

She turns to take a bite from her sandwich, stilling as she catches that familiar, fiery red hair out of the corner of her eye. She turns slightly, just in time to see Lydia clap her hands together, completely in tandem with the rest of the squad. Her smile is wide and plastic as she shouts something to the team, and Erica watches, heart thudding loudly in her ears, as she jumps off of two boys' shoulders, sending her skirt and hair flying in the wind. The rest of her body stays perfectly rim rod straight as she twirls, arms clutched into her chest, and falls back into their outstretched arms.

Erica swallows around a bite of her sandwich, watching distractedly as Lydia pushes herself away from the boys and fixes her skirt. She smiles at another team member and takes a hair tie from them, laughing at something they say, head tilted back and the column of her throat on display. Erica watches as Lydia leans over, gathering her thick hair in her hands and easily tying it up in a physically impossible perfect ponytail.

Erica misses her mouth while trying to take a sip of water, cursing as it sends the cold drink down her neck and into her shirt.

“You got a little drool,” Cora says helpfully, throwing a balled up napkin at her chest. She gestures to Erica's chin with a finger and smirks, “Right there.”

Thankfully, Erica isn't one to blush when she's embarrassed. She takes the offered napkin and begins wiping herself, narrowing her eyes at Cora's shit eating grin. Erica smiles sweetly at Boyd as she announces, “I'm going to kill her and you're going to die alone.”

Her eyelashes flutter innocently at Boyd's annoyance and Cora's rare laugh is loud and happy, making Boyd's face crack as he smiles down at her.

Cora and Boyd aren't one for public displays of affection. Erica can count on one hand the amount of times she's caught them holding hands or, god forbid, kissing. In fact, most people at their school don't even know they're dating.

It's hard to see unless you're close to them; the way Boyd's eyes soften when he looks at her, the small tilt to her lips Cora gets when she's near him. It's a subtle change, something a regular person wouldn't notice. Erica would think of them as just good friends if she hadn't known them since middle school.

“Don't you guys have football practice?” Cora asks them suddenly, eyebrows low and judging as they usually are.

Erica pouts at her, even as Boyd curses and quickly begins packing up his things. Their table is prime cheerleader watching material. Martin is wearing her _skirt_ today, for fucks sake. Erica is even willingly letting Cora make jokes at her expense! Why is Cora trying to take this away from her?

“Come on,” Boyd says to her pout, “You know Coach,” he's not sympathetic in the least to her plight, the asshole, “If you miss practice, you won't get first string on Saturday.”

He's right. Of course he's right, Erica whines to herself, since he's on the same team as her. Coach is insane and acts as if he's taken one too many blows to the head, but he's also a gigantic hard ass. She checks her watch, noting that they are, in fact, already five minutes late, and groans into her hands. Shes' going to have to do so many suicides. Ugh. Her _life_.

“This school has the shittiest schedule,” Erica groans. Coach requires them to be in the locker room at least twenty minutes before practice starts, despite how it drags from fifth period all the way to five pm. Erica so rarely gets to enjoy her lunch.

“See, this is what you get for conforming,” Cora tells them, gesturing at them with her soda can. Erica rolls her eyes at the anarchist patch on her rough looking leather jacket.

Erica mocks her under her breath as she gets up, watching out of the corner of her eye as Cora smirks at her.

“It seemed like such a good idea in 7th grade,” she whines. Her duffel bag is as heavy as it always is when Erica hefts it over her shoulder, but she has weight lifting three times a week and is able to carry it without much complaint. As she rounds the table, she's sure to peck an especially wet smooch to Cora's cheek, laughing obnoxiously at her grossed out noises.

“I'm going to kill her and you're going to be friendless forever!” Cora shouts to Boyd, and Erica laughs louder at his long suffering sigh.

* * *

As much as she loves to complain about it, Erica truly does love football.

She loves that moment before a game starts, when the stands are hushed and quiet. She lives for the fog misting the ground and the lights shining down on her and the team like spotlights. She loves how the crowd screams, and she can't even hear it beyond the blood pounding in her ears. When she comes out of the locker room, she always feels like a gladiator in the mouth of a Colosseum, ready to fight a lion and come out the winner.

She loves the ferocity of it, the passion to it, and the atmosphere it inspires. She loves the feeling she gets in her chest when the ball lands perfectly in her cupped hands, and the pride that blooms and warms her entire body when she runs across the touchdown line. Erica's not normally a violent person, not really, anyway, but she tackles with a ruthlessness, like a predator taking down their prey.

It's violent, sure, but Erica can't get enough of it.

It's the only thing that keeps her running even when she wants to fall over and vomit. Coach's angry, narrowed eyes follow her up and down the field, whistle blowing harshly at the start and end of each minute.

When Coach is angry, _really_ angry, he becomes something of a torture machine. He likes to play a game called “Let's Kill You,” where you have to run to a goal post and back in a minute. Thirty seconds up the field and thirty seconds back down. There's no resting in this game, no sir. The only rest you get is a few precious seconds if you manage to get up the field and back before the minute is up. If anyone falls two laps behind his watch, they get moved to second string.

It's brutal. It's evil. Erica's sure Coach gets a huge kick out of it.

Erica is a hummingbird, all quick movements and blurred motions. Her role in the game is a sprint, not a marathon like others, and while Erica is quick, her stamina is not as good as it could be. Her heart is about ready to burst out of her chest as she races, nothing on her mind but the back and forth. Boyd gives her dark looks, and Erica's sure that if she hasn't been his friend for years he would honest to God kill her.

Boyd won the genetic lottery for his favorite position, and Erica loves to joke that he was born to be a linebacker; built to take down other guys easily. He's fast, but his speed isn't really a big factor as opposed to his strength.

It's the way most people are on the team. There's rarely any guys on the team who can run for hours without complaint, usually getting poached for soccer by JV year.

Erica has zero idea how Boyd's managing to keep up with her, but it's honestly terrifying.

Coach blows his whistle as her hand touches the goal post, slicing his arms in the air in a sign to stop.

“Oh thank god,” she groans instantly slumping against the nearest wall. Her muscles are screaming but she feels lighter somehow, endorphins making her head spin. Her legs feel like jelly and she wouldn't be surprised if she fell at any second. Boyd's right next to her, huffing and puffing like a bull. She pats him on the shoulder, a way to say _good work_ since she's too busy inhaling precious air to say it out loud.

The rest of the guys are all milling about, trying to catch their breath and gagging into the well kept grass. They all groan and whine along with them, some boys from second string even lay down on the ground. She thinks she hears someone ask for 911. Erica turns away and looks up at the sky, shielding her eyes from the harsh sun. She's dripping with sweat and she feels it cool against her skin in the light breeze, her body trying valiantly to cool down.

After practicing drills for three hours in the hot sun, Finstock thought it would be fun to bring about Boyd and Erica's punishment for being late. Except, today he was on a kick about “team building” and “unity” and decided a team that tolerates tardiness together has to suffer together. Erica's sure a few of her team members may let them be tackled in tomorrows game. She's also equally sure she deserves it, as she would definitely do the same thing. It's in the name of solidarity and all that jazz.

The coach whistles again and demands, “Hustle!” at them, sending the flock of teenagers back to their feet as they jog over to Finstock, breathing harsh and heavy as they crowd around him.

“Good job,” Coach says, when most of them surround him. Second and third line are choosing to walk back and Erica hears them laminate about how they hate their lives. “You all did great. If only I can get you kids to run like that in an actual game!”

Coach laughs and the rest of the team chuckles weakly, not sure how to take the back handed compliment. Erica crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. Boyd and her trade a look.

Finstock clears his throat, “You can all thank Reyes and Boyd here for that fun exercise. Let's all give them a big hand, huh boys?” Erica doesn't shrink away from the glares she receives, just stares straight ahead at Finstock and his manic clapping. She catches a familiar head of curly blond hair try to catch her eyes, but suddenly becomes very engrossed in Finstock's reprimand, “Right. Boyd, I'm giving you a free pass since it's your first tardy and I'm 100% sure on who the _real_ culprit is,” Coach's beady eyes narrow at her, “Reyes, you had better not be late again or else I'll make you do those for a solid hour, capiche?”

Erica doesn't like lying so she smiles at him, “I'll try my best, sir.”

“Try better,” Finstock demands. “Practice is over. I want you all to get to bed early tonight and be rested up for game tomorrow, got it?” A few murmurs of acceptance resound through the team and Erica nods along with them, knowing that a good portion of these boys are going to be out until 3 am partying. Greenberg swears smoking before a game makes him play ten times better. He's a bench warmer so his theory has, thankfully, never been proven. “Alright, huddle up. _Go Tornadoes!”_

Everyone is equally tired and far too unenthusiastic as they cheer back with him, and coach gracefully decides to let their rousing team spirit go without complaint.

Erica turns to start grabbing her stuff so she can get the hell out of dodge when she feels a hand on her shoulder. She sighs and turns around to face Finstock, voice surprisingly kind as he asks her to hang back for a second. Boyd looks at her, a question in his eyes, and Erica waves him on ahead. Coach apparently wants to yell at her some more.

“Good job out there today, Reyes,” he says, surprising her, “Good hustle. You're the fastest kid I've ever had on this horrible team.”

“Thanks?” Erica squints at him, entirely unsure as to where he's going with this. Finstock actually hasn't complimented her since Freshman year when he bumped her to JV, and again in Sophomore year when he switched her to Varsity. He usually pretends she doesn't exist unless he's yelling at her.

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to check in,” he tries to shrug nonchalantly and fails, “See how everything's going. I know we didn't end on a good note last season,” Erica's heart drops at his casual mention of their last game and she stares at him with wide eyes, “And we didn't get a chance to talk about it before you quit, but I was happy when I saw you at Summer try outs. I'm not very, uh, good. At talking to the kids, but I just wanted to make sure you were okay to play tomorrow night.”

“I'm, uh,” Erica looks away and tries to breathe against the reminder of last season, when she had a grand mal seizure in the middle of the field at the homecoming game. She shakes herself and looks back up at him and nods, “I'm good. I promise. My doctor upped my dosage and my parents have me on a special meal plan and I'm- yeah, we're good. I promise, Coach.”

Finstock nods, looking relieved as he says, “Good, I wasn't sure if I had pushed you too hard last season or something. Good job, Reyes,” he claps her on the shoulder and leaves awkwardly, shouting after some kids who are hanging around suspiciously by the back fence.

Erica watches him leave blankly and tries to shudder in a shaky breath. When he hadn't mentioned the incident over Summer try outs, she had just assumed he forgot. Little did she know he was just lulling her into a false sense of security. It took her weeks to come back to school and months to get the courage to even pick up a football again. Erica shakes her head and presses her cool water bottle against her chest, trying to calm her racing heart.

Boyd doesn't ask her any questions when she meets him at the edge of the field, and the walk home is comfortably quiet. Erica bumps her shoulder into Boyd's in appreciation. He smiles in return, and just like that, most of her anxiety is gone.

* * *

Erica can't remember her first seizure, but she's heard the story recounted plenty of times. She was four, her mother, Angela, says, playing on the playground and laughing. Everything was fine, she would swear, everything was completely normal before Erica started swaying. It was a petite mal, something small and almost unnoticeable, something that no one ever sees on TV. Her eyes were rolling and her head was shaking gently, and she wasn't able to focus on anything.

Erica's mom swears she had a panic attack on the way to the hospital.

Erica didn't have a grand mal seizure until fifth grade, and as such she didn't know what was happening until she was shaking and convulsing on the floor. All she knew was that, when she opened her eyes, she had a shiny new pill prescription and the hawk like eyes of her mother trained carefully on her.

“You don't have to play tonight, mija” her mother assures her, voice calm and soothing in her natural accent as it always is, “You can just sit by and enjoy the game with the rest of us!”

Erica fiddles with the silver bracelet on her wrist. Engraved upon it is her name, the name of her doctor, and what medication she takes. _Epilepsy_ is written in a bold font, and below it it advises people to not put things between her teeth during an episode. When she was younger, Erica used to take it off during the bus ride to school, but after she had a huge seizure in middle school and no one knew what to do, Erica's taken to wearing it even in her sleep.

“What if you have a tiny one?” She asks, and Erica rolls her eyes and pours herself a glass of apple juice, “Those are hardly noticeable! What if you get hurt?”

“Mom,” Erica chastises, “We've already been over this, like, a million times. The school always has a hospital dude standing on the sidelines watching me. He's specially trained in this stuff, remember?” Erica grits her teeth and forces a smile, “He's the one who caught me when I started seizing last year.”

Angela sighs and puts her head in her hands, “You're right. You're completely right! I'm just being over protective. I just worry, you know? I don't want to see my baby girl get hurt.”

“I know,” Erica smiles kindly. She leans over the island and presses a quick kiss to her mother's cheek, “But I'll be okay. Are you and dad coming tonight?”

“We wouldn't miss it for the world,” her mom swears with a gentle smile.

The familiar sound of Cora's car honking, as harsh and demanding as the girl herself, spurs Erica into action. She pulls on her sneakers and grabs her bag, shouting a goodbye to her mother over her shoulder on her way out the door.

Cora's red and black 1969 Camaro looks out of place parked in Erica's driveway, next to her mother's simple, white Honda. Cora dubbed the car _Licorice_ the minute she got her, and bought her out of some passive-aggressive revolt from both her older siblings buying the newer models of the same car. Erica often rolls her eyes at Cora's strange acts of rebellion, and loves to grill her about just how much gas she wastes on a day to day basis, but even she has to admit- the car is sweet.

Boyd's leaning propped against the open door, seat pulled forward so Erica can hop in the back. His broad shoulders roll as the engine rumbles loudly, Cora revving it with a wide smirk. Erica laughs as the old lady, Ms. Meyer, across the street gives her a dirty look through her curtains.

“She's going to kill you one day,” Erica says she greets Boyd with a, reluctant on his part, first bump, “That, or offer you laxative laced cookies.”

“No taking cookies from neighborly old ladies,” Cora nods emphatically as she leans across the middle console, “Why would anyone willingly live in the suburbs with such dangers lurking around every corner?”

“We can't all live in the middle of the woods,” Erica rolls her eyes as she leans into the car to hop in the back, only to stop short at the very comical sight of Derek Hale, knees pulled up to his chest and a scowl gracing his features. Cora's backseat is hilariously tiny, not even Cora can fit back there comfortably and Erica practically breaks an ankle every time she crawls out. The sight makes her raise an eyebrow and smirk at him, “Hey, cutie. You stuck?”

Derek just scowls deeper at her and Erica laughs as he struggles to scoot over. She dumps her bag at Boyd's feet, giving him a challenging look. Boyd looks ready to fight her on it, to make her put it away herself, but then he looks at the back seat and sees Derek's pitiful posture. He gives Derek a sympathetic glance and takes Erica's bag to the trunk for her.

“Sorry,” Erica says, awkwardly arranging herself so she's somewhat comfortable and Derek isn't a pretzel. He grunts at her apology and continues glaring at the back of Cora's head.

“His car broke down,” Cora confides, patting the hood of her car fondly, and Erica can just picture her bragging about how _Licorice_ has never broken down. Erica catches a dark look traded between the siblings through the mirror and wonders how long of a fight it was for Derek to bum a ride off of his sister. She shudders, not for the first time fearing what kind of shenanigans happen at the Hale house.

“You could have let me drive,” Derek frowns, “You're not even supposed to be driving with people under twenty one in the front seat.”

“You gonna tell mom?”

Derek glares hard, teeth snapping out the word, “No.”

“Then zip it.”

Cora grins quickly at Erica before twisting the nob of her radio all the way to the right. Boyd puts the seat back up, squishing Erica's legs some more, and climbs in. As soon as his seat belt is buckled, Cora quickly backs out of the parking lot, going over the curb and making Derek's head hits the ceiling.

Erica bites her lip to contain her grin as Derek curses loudly at Cora.

She struggles in vain, trying to arrange her legs when she feels a cramp coming on. Sometimes, she wonders if getting rides from Cora is worth the pain. She figures she should be used to it by now though, since Cora is basically her personal chauffeur.

It's not that Erica doesn't want to drive, it's that her mother is terrified of her doing it. Sometimes, Erica finds her mother pouring herself over article upon article about epileptic teens in car accidents, suffering brain damage from sports, drowning while swimming- the list goes on. Erica's mother is a notorious worry wart, which most people approve of, all things considered, but Erica just finds it mildly annoying.

She loves her mom, but she hates having to ask Cora to drive her everywhere. She hates walking to the bus stop and she hates walking home from practice after running for miles. It was the compromise she made though. Football or permit. Sports or driving. Her mother may be willing to let her risk her life once, but she acts as if Erica wanting to live a normal life is just playing with fate.

Erica looks at Derek out of the corner of her eye and watches as his face relaxes into something less hostile. Erica rarely speaks to Derek, in fact, he usually just meets them at the field rather than getting a ride from Cora, which, predictably, makes Cora rage about how much gas he's wasting, so it's rare to see him this close. The last time she had even seen him was months ago, during the homecoming game when Erica seized.

Derek's been to most of her games, ever since she first started playing tackle football back in middle school. It's not out of some weird, perverted stalking thing. Erica's mother has checked. Derek just always seems to know when Erica's about to have a seizure, like those specially trained dogs. He's a paramedic and, when the school demanded that Erica needed to have medical personal standing on the side lines, Derek volunteered his time.

In fact, most of the Hale family has always been weird about Erica's seizures. Cora's probably the only person in Erica's life who has never directly asked if she's taken her pills, if she doesn't count the rare day when she forgets and Cora just levels her with a disappointed glare. It's almost like a weird kind of sixth sense.

Erica once told her that it was the shittiest super power ever, and Cora laughed so hard milk came out of her nose.

“Honestly, I'm surprised you aren't pissing yourself in excitement,” Cora says loudly, over the heavy bass of her music. “Maybe I _was_ wrong. Fuck, now I owe Boyd twenty bucks.”

“I told you to have faith,” Boyd chuckles.

“Um,” Erica scrunches her eyebrows at them, unsure if this is their way of showing concern in their own strange way “I mean, it's just a game.”

Cora looks at her so fast that the car swerves into the next lane. Another car honks and Erica's heart pounds as she grips the back of Boyd's head rest, Derek's hands white knuckling their seats as he yells at Cora to watch the road. Boyd, the only one used to Cora's driving, doesn't even flinch. Cora rolls her eyes at her brother's hysterical yelling and rights the car, before going back to shooting Erica incredulous looks.

“What?” She asks again, “You seriously mean you haven't heard? Shit, Reyes, you're way more popular than I am! You should know these things!”

“What are you even talking about?”

Cora looks at her again, as if she has two heads, and speaks slowly like she's talking to an infant, “Lydia Martin? _Your crush?_ She got bumped to Varsity squad. She's cheering at the game tonight.” Erica's heart stops completely. “Christ, how did you _not_ know that?”

Erica's face falls, mouth dropping open and eyes widening, because, shit, how _did_ she not know that? She doesn't even pretend to deny Cora's accusations like usual, because, fuck, how is she going to focus on her game when Lydia Martin is that close to her?

There's a flash of a camera and Derek, once again, telling Cora to watch the road. Erica looks over just in time to see Cora shoving her phone back in her pocket, a triumphant smirk on her face, “There we go. That's the look I was waiting for.”

“I'm going to kill you,” Erica threatens, mind still on the fact that Lydia Martin is going to be cheering at her game. Erica shakes her head at herself. She's not some teenage boy who shoots his load at the sight of a girl's cleavage.

No, she respects Lydia as a person, goddammit. Just because she's maintaining a C average in the one class they share, can never seem to finish her lunch when the cheer leading team practices in the quad, and has fantasized too many times to count about Lydia's long, toned legs doesn't mean anything. At all.

Coach is going to make her run _forever_.

“Don't threaten the driver,” Cora snaps back, swerving the car again for effect. Derek curses violently.

“I can't wait for you to get your license taken away,” he grumbles.

“Just remember,” Cora grins wickedly, voice sickly sweet, “I have photographic evidence of you humping Braeden on mom's antique dining table.”

“I need to move out,” Derek moans, as Boyd sighs, “Your camera phone is a menace.”

It's not until they're at the school parking lot does she realize what Cora said earlier, voice angry as she demands, “Wait, you're saying you and Boyd betted on this rather than _warning me_?”

Boyd shrugs, “If it makes you feel better, I thought you'd at least try to play it cool.”

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

* * *

Offensively, Erica is exclusively played as a wide receiver. It's not as highly renowned as quarterback is, but it's a hell of a lot cooler. Her job is, essentially, to run as fast as she can while dodging safeties and cornerbacks from tackling her. On top of that, she has to get as close as she can to the end zone while always keeping herself open for a pass.

Catching a ball? No problem, Erica can do that in her sleep. Catching one at least 30 yards down with big, monstrous guys trying to kill her? That's where it gets complicated. It's a good thing Erica enjoys the challenge.

There's always at least two wide receivers in a game and, depending on the complexity of the play, that number can get bumped up to four. Erica and Isaac are the dream team, basically. He's a senior and they were on Varsity together last year, and while they were close during that time, Erica has tried very hard to avoid him ever since her seizure. Isaac was the second person to get to her after Derek, Erica remembers, and the thought of having to face him when he's seen her like _that_ makes her stomach twist in knots.

It's difficult when they're almost always played together, though. Finstock calls them the twin terrors, thanks to their similar build and curly blonde hair, which Isaac and Erica used to love to laugh at.

Isaac's buckling his helmet when Erica makes it out to the field, always a few minutes later than the rest of the team because she has to wait for the janitor to unlock the girls locker room. Isaac spits out his mouth guard as she approaches him and graces her with a surprised, yet happy grin. His cherub face and dimples making him look too innocent to play such a harsh game. Erica knows better, though.

She wants to apologize for being such a tool the past few months, for dodging his calls, ignoring him during practice and looking away when he calls out to her in the hallway, but the words won't form in her mouth and all she can do is smile back at him.

“Hey, Reyes,” he grins at her, “You gonna catch any balls tonight or am I going to have to pick up your slack?”

Erica lets out a relieved breath, more thankful than words can describe for him not bringing up how horrible she is, for just letting it go and acting as if nothing's changed. Erica falls back into their old pattern easily enough, feeling like it was just yesterday that they were best friends.

“Your ball handling could use work, Lahey,” Erica's smile is 100% uncontrollable happiness as she tosses a water bottle at him, “I just want you to get in some practice.”

Isaac gasps in fake offense and spins quickly, calling out, “Danny!”

Erica rolls her eyes at Isaac and takes a long chug of water, trying to avoid looking in the direction of the stands. She can hear the cheerleaders milling about, setting up pom poms and going over routines. If she listens close, she can even hear the high tilt of Lydia's voice. Erica leans against the bench to double knot her cleats, thinking herself the very picture of pathetic.

“What is it now?” Danny groans form his place down the bench. He waves apologetically at the two people he was talking to and starts to jog over. He rolls his eyes at his boyfriend, pulling off his shiny red helmet to reveal a mildly annoyed expression.

“Reyes says my ball handling could use some work,” Isaac tattles as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Danny looks quickly at Erica with a raised eyebrow, waiting for confirmation like a school teacher with squabbling pre-schoolers. Erica nods, grin still in place, and Danny shrugs apologetically, “She's not wrong, babe.”

Isaac scoffs, mock outrage as he sniffs, “Yeah right, guess you'll be saying that as you get yourself off tonight.”

Danny grins and presses a chaste kiss to Isaac's lips, Isaac laughing into the kiss, and Erica hears the tell tale smack of a slap to the ass. Somewhere on the field Finstock cries, “Oh, for Pete's sake, Lahey! Mahealani! Get a room!”

The bench jostles as someone throws a bag down onto it, Erica's head snapping up just in time to see Boyd standing in front of her. He smiles down at her in greeting and takes a seat beside her.

Erica leans back, comforted by his body heat beside her, and looks up at the sky. The stadium lights are bright, the last beams of sunlight shrinking down past the horizon. The moon is out, tiny and far away, and Erica breathes in the smell of grass, dirt and sweat.

“I'm glad we get to play together this year,” Erica says, voice too sincere as it breaks the silence. “Last year was boring without you.”

When Coach pulled her aside after her homecoming game Freshman year and asked her if she would like to play for the JV squad, the only thought that Erica had was Boyd. She had asked Coach to let her think about it, unafraid of his incredulous look at her request. Boyd gave her one of equal measure when she brought it up to him, and told her that if she was going to use him as an excuse for holding herself back that he'd never talk to her again.

Boyd grunts in agreement, “I'm just happy you decided to come back.”

Erica doesn't say anything in response to that, remembering how much of a mess she was for weeks after the attack, how she holed herself up in her room and couldn't stop thinking about how much of a failure she was. She thinks of Boyd, who sat outside her door almost every day, and Cora, who wouldn't stop calling her phone until Erica finally gave in and talked to them.

Erica wouldn't be here if it wasn't for either of them. The words stick like peanut butter to the roof of her mouth, and all she can do is stay silent next to Boyd.

She looks out across the field and watches the other team, their green uniforms reflecting in the light. She tries to size them up, tries to find their weaknesses. She remembers the tapes coach had them watch last week and tries to remember every single number on their side of the field. Nerves are starting to form and she has to shake her head to will away the reminder of last year.

It's not going to be the same, she tells herself. Her silver bracelet catches in the light and Erica takes a deep breath as she pulls her gloves on, covering the band beneath her gear. Her gloves are red, matching the red and white of her uniform, and the palms and fingers are textured, the latex sticky, so she can grip the ball easier.

“You nervous?” Boyd's voice is a low rumble in her ear.

“Sorta,” Erica admits with a shrug, not wanting to say more in front of so many people. Boyd leans over and Velcros her gloves closed and Erica does the same to his, making them tight on his wrist. “Your parents here?”

“Dad has to work tonight. Cora's sitting with my mom though.”

Erica turns around on the bench and narrows her eyes, trying to find the familiar sight of Mrs. Boyd in the stands. It takes a few seconds, and an awkward wave to Erica's own parents when they spot her, but she's able to see her in the first row, a thin blanket being shared between her and Cora. Erica's very surprised when she sees Cora with Boyd's jersey number, 14, written in marker on her cheek.

“That's a declaration of love if I've ever seen one,” Erica grins at him, chin jerking to the stands.

Boyd chuckles, “She said wearing my jersey would be “crossing a line” on her moral code or something.”

Erica smiles at the thought, still wondering how golden boy Vernon Boyd and rebellious, anarchy inclined Cora Hale even met, let alone became a couple. One day in middle school, Cora was just sitting at their lunch table, with thick cropped hair, an army surplus jacket, and smudged eyeliner, talking amiably with Boyd. Erica never questioned it and probably never would, as now Cora and her are closer than Erica ever thought she could get with a girl.

Middle School was not a fun time to be an epileptic tom boy who frequently crushed on girls.

Boyd looks over her head, eyes intense and focused like a bomb searching for its target. He stills and looks down at Erica to ask, “Have you even looked in her direction yet?”

“I'm going on this theory that if I pretend she doesn't exist, then I'll be able to actually. Y'know. Focus.”

“Right,” Boyd nods, “So your tactic is being completely pathetic?”

Erica winces, “Basically, yeah.”

He opens his mouth to say something when coach's whistle blows, loud and shrill in their ears. Erica breathes out a sigh of relief and puts her mouth guard in and her helmet on in record time. Boyd gives her a look as she pats him on his shoulder pad, and she just meets it with a smile around her mouth guard.

“Let's play some football!” Coach yells, and Erica, for once, cheers along with him.

* * *

Erica's ready to quit life when Finstock pulls her out of the game, anger in his eyes and a frown on his face. Erica's already beat herself up enough about it, body one entire bruise as Finstock sighs, “What the hell, Reyes?”

She doesn't have a response for him. Erica doesn't know why she hasn't caught a single pass all game, or why she's being tackled left and right. She's trying her hardest, honest to god, but it's like her reaction time is shot and Erica is left fumbling two seconds behind everyone else.

“Go,” Finstock orders tiredly, “Rest up. You're useless like this. I'm putting you back in next quarter and you better be the girl I pulled from Freshman to JV.”

Erica doesn't meet his eyes as she slumps over to the bench, hands curled into fist and feet shuffling awkwardly. This is not the comeback she had wanted to make. Erica rips her helmet off of her head with a grunt and looks over at the scoreboard. Three quarters in and their score is 17 to 34 with three minutes left on the clock.

Erica rest her head in her hands and groans loudly. She doesn't sit on the bench so much as falls onto it, entire body bone tired and ready to quit. A few guys from second string eye her like a murder of ravens ready to steal food from the wolf, each salivating to get her spot in the line up.

She guzzles her Gatorade and watches the game tiredly, trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

Like an answer from the high heavens, Erica smells the sweet, berry waft of her perfume before she sees her. Lydia's long hair pools over one shoulder, held captive in a high pony. Lydia's leaning so close to her that the end of it tickles at Erica's neck.

“You know,” she says, voice thick like honey and Erica is suddenly reminded of how easy it is for flies to get trapped in it, “No one likes a loser.”

Erica doesn't say anything, but her body tenses up at the word. Erica's never much cared for winning or losing before, it's always been about her own personal victories, about how well she's done on the field. Erica's pictured Lydia saying many things to her before, but she never, for some reason, thought that the girl would call her the word that Erica feared most.

It's funny. Erica's never spoken to Lydia before, has only day dreamed about the idea. Every time she so much as considered it, her body would get warm all over and her pulse would pick up. Now? Erica's too beaten down to even react with more than surprise at Lydia acknowledgment her.

“It's not your fault,” Lydia hums in her ear, and goosebumps break out on the nape of Erica's neck, “Finstock has you positioned all wrong. Either Danny needs to stop throwing to you or you and Lahey should have switched sides, like, before halftime. Their cornerback and safeties are too worried about stopping you that they don't even care about Lahey.”

Erica looks up at her quickly, eyes wide in surprise, and Lydia's pink lips stretch wide into a satisfied smirk.

“What?” She asks with a shrug, “I read.”

Erica, beginning to thaw as Lydia's smile warms her, shakes her head, “Isaac is 6'1. He's tall enough to catch the balls before Danny chucks them into the end zone, and I'm not. He's farther down the field, so the balls come at a higher arch. I have shorter routes and I cross midfield because I'm barely 5'7, so we don't run the risk of missing a touchdown,” Erica explains, gesturing with her hand.

Lydia scoffs, “Where's the risk in missing touchdowns you aren't getting?”

Erica doesn't have a good reply to that. She turns, throwing her foot over the bench so she's straddling it, to give Lydia her full attention, not like the girl needs to fight for it much. Erica thought Lydia's cool and focused gaze during class was a sight to witness, but the girl in front of her has completely transformed. Her eyes are bright and targeted, excitement brimming from her like fire is dancing under her skin. She's intense and calculating, watching the players on the field run back and forth as if this match is the only important thing in the world.

Lydia nods quickly to herself, seeming to come to some sort of conclusion in the giant brain of hers, and Erica thinks she might have just tripped from crushing to love with the look Lydia gives her.

"Look, it comes down to this,” Lydia says, “You run faster than Lahey, and I've seen you jump. There's no way that ball will get past you if you get the chance to get down there.”

“You've seen me jump?” Erica asks without thought, surprised.

Lydia looks away quickly, voice rushed as she explains, “I played volleyball in seventh grade. We always had to share the court with these obnoxious basketball players for practice.” She coughs, and before Erica can even consider that, Lydia continues, “If you jump half as good now as you did then, you'll be able to do it.”

Erica just sits there, staring in wonder at the girl before her. She didn't even know that Lydia Martin knew her name, let alone any of _this_. Lydia smiles at her, and, ah, there it is. There's that fire Erica always imagined coursing through her veins, there's the uptick of her heart and the heat in her cheeks. It's like a universe is in her blood, everything so much more alive.

“Also,” Lydia points at Danny in the middle of the field, “They haven't focused heavily on him since first quarter. Your right and left guards can ease up on safety patrol and start helping you and Lahey out more,” before Erica can say anything, thank her, compliment her, confess her undying affection, Lydia looks over her shoulder at something, and then back to Erica, “I need to get back. Go _Tornadoes_!”

And, in a wisp of red hair and berry perfume, Lydia is gone. Erica watches her run back to her squad and pick up her red and white pom poms, falling perfectly back into formation with her smile firmly on as if she never left in the first place. She watches her for another few seconds, following her as she easily performs cheer routines and calls out to the crowd.

Erica pinches the skin of her wrist, desperately wondering if that entire moment was just a dream, or a vivid hallucination from getting tackled so much. She wishes she had a time machine and could go back, at least stay in that bubble with Lydia for another few seconds.

She looks away when coach blows his whistle and pulls her helmet back on, a new found determination settling in her as she runs over to the team huddle.

* * *

“We are going out to celebrate!” Isaac's voice is a loud scream in her ears. He has an arm thrown tight around her shoulders, crushing her to his chest. “What a comeback! I can't believe you caught that ball!”

Honestly, Erica can't believe it either. She can barely remember anything but the hush of the field, the people in the stands all holding their breath. Danny threw the ball too high, _way too damn high_ , and Erica saw the whole game end before her eyes only seconds before using the body of a boy from the rival team, lying gracelessly across the field from a failed tackle, as a spring board into the air. She remembers the weight of the ball as it landed in her cupped hands, remembers the thrill and panic that shot through her as she touched back to the Earth and bolted the few steps across the goal line.

It sounds like something out of a movie.

Erica doesn’t have time to reply to Isaac, as they're suddenly engulfed by the rest of the team. People grab at her from all around, each desperate to have her winning luck rubbed off on them, and Erica laughs and smiles, body too warm and bright, feeling like a star has exploded inside of her. She doesn't think her body can contain this much happiness.

After Lydia talked to her, Erica came back on the field with a vengeance. She only had to give Danny a look and he gave up the team huddle for her, letting her talk and plan even though she's just a wide receiver and he's the quarter back. Only two people put up a fight against her plan, but Danny was quick to shut them down, giving Erica a wide smile of trust.

The other team didn't know what hit them, and at the end of fourth quarter with only two minutes on the clock, Erica and her boys had tied the score. Two minutes can either be too fast or too slow when you're on the field, and Erica is just thankful that it played in their favor.

“Tornadoes!” People chant over and over again, rushing out onto the field. Erica chants along with them, trying and failing to spot a head of red hair in the crowd.

* * *

The party is in full swing by the time Erica and Boyd arrive, each wearing their Letterman jackets, if only because Danny asked them to out of team solidarity. Danny is a good captain, better than their one last year was, and Erica respects him enough to look like a tool if only for a night. She still doesn't know how to thank him for trusting her call, wonders just what would have happened if she'd made the wrong one.

She doesn't want to think about that though, smiling at Danny from across the room. He holds his red cup up at her look and she rolls her eyes at him. Isaac, who is leaning against his boyfriend, pushes away from him to run at Erica.

“You!” He shouts, voice too high and slurred to be sober, “Are a football goddess!”

Erica shoves at him, laughing off the compliment, “And you're drunk as hell. It's not even midnight, Cinderella.”

“Just wanted to celebrate,” he gives her a dopey grin. “Not too often you start out your senior year with a win! AndIbetcha' we're gonna win every game this year with you playing in 'em.”

“Only if you show up to the games ready to play, Lahey,” Erica says. “Coach is gonna murder you tomorrow if you have a hang over.”

“He can deal, okay? We won!”

Isaac cheers again and turns away to look for someone else to celebrate with. Erica rolls her eyes at the amused look Boyd gives her. She feels her heart ache for Isaac, for the deadbeat dad he has who puts too much pressure on him, for the dead war hero of a brother he has who has a too high winning streak his own year of playing. She hakes her head, wishing she had the words to talk to Isaac about it.

“You want something to drink?” Boyd asks her, looking out across the field of bodies. Practically everyone from school is here, packed into Jackson Whittemore's grand house. Jackson's a prick on a good day, but he's captain of the Lacrosse team, Danny's best friend, and is the poster boy for school spirit. Plus, he's been known to throw some amazing parties.

Not that Erica would know. Partying isn't really her and Boyd's scene. They only came out tonight because they felt too good to sit at home, playing video games, too fired up to just do their typical Friday night song and dance, wanted to share their euphoria with other like minded people. Now, Erica is wondering if maybe this wasn't the best idea.

She's been to a few parties before, one doesn't get bumped from Freshman to JV, and then to Varsity in the span of two years without turning some heads, but she's never really enjoyed them. She can't drink, which is the main point of these gatherings, and doesn't normally like to be around people acting like idiots if she can't be one herself.

Her medicine lowers her tolerance for alcohol, which means she gets drunk at a faster rate than normal people her age. Her mother has read one too many articles about people with epilepsy becoming alcoholics, which causes even more seizures, and it's a whole cycle of bad things. To save her mother the worry, she doesn't often go out.

“How about some water,” Erica decides to say, and Boyd doesn't question it.

They head through the throng of bodies into the kitchen, where they find only two people making out against the fridge. Erica makes a disgusted face at their eager fumbling, and Boyd gently grunts to get their attention.

The two spring apart like they've been burned, and Erica sees Scott McCall, a guy on the Lacrosse team, and a new girl she hasn't met yet.

She grins wickedly, “Why, Scotty, aren't you having a fun time?”

Scott blushes so badly that the temperature of the room increases by at least two degrees. Erica delights in the abashed look on his face. Scott's always been a sweetheart, always the one in Middle School to sacrifice his own social standing to protect her. She regrets not extending him the same courtesy in high school, when she suddenly became popular, but no one has ever really been mean to Scott, that's she's noticed. It's almost impossible to be truly malicious to the boy with a too kind smile, but still. Erica ignores her own guilt.

“H-hey Erica. Boyd.” Scott nods at them. He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, “Uh, have you guys met Allison yet?”

Allison is handling her embarrassment a lot better than Scott is. Her alabaster skin isn't even slightly pink, but her smile is apologetic. Sorry to be caught making gross PDA, but not embarrassed by her sexuality? Erica likes this girl.

“I haven't had the chance, yet,” Allison says, giving Scott a cute smile. She turns to Erica, “I have so much respect for you. At my old school in San Diego, girl's were pretty much shunned from playing sports at all.”

Erica is slightly taken aback by Allison's words. Of course Erica herself has faced adversity about playing football, she still remembers the stink people made when she wanted to play tackle football in Middle School, all those PTA mom's saying that she'd be winning just because boys would be too afraid to tackle her.

They were, at first, but as soon as Erica proved she wouldn't hold back, they refused to as well, no matter what their mom's said about hitting girls. She's faced challenges trying to be a football player all her life, but no one's ever congratulated her for it. No one has ever told her they respect her.

“I just wanted to play football,” Erica says, voice still too shocked for her liking. “No matter what anyone said.”

“You're a total pioneer,” Allison gushes.

Erica feels happier than she did when she caught the ball earlier, and her smile is bright and happy as she thanks Allison. Boyd tosses her a water bottle and Erica catches it, the cold waking her from her thoughts.

“It was great meeting you,” Erica says, voice still carrying too much feeling for her liking. “Scott's an amazing guy, treat him right.”

Scott looks even more embarrassed. Allison turns to smile at him, “I will, I promise. Have a great night, guys!”

Boyd quickly grabs Erica at the elbow and drags her from the room, letting the two lovebirds have some privacy.

Erica laughs as Boyd pulls her out into the cool night air of the backyard, and even he cracks a smile. They sit on the stone steps and uncap their water bottles, drinking in silence. It's not long before Erica breaks it.

“Is Cora coming tonight?”

“I mean,” Boyd shrugs, “She's not going to meet us here if that's what you're asking.”

“You're fucking gross,” Erica snorts. “Why not? Is this too _preppy_ for her?”

“Nah, she has a family thing. Besides, she hates most of these people and doesn't want to waste her time around them.” Boyd says. “I mean, we also hate most of these people. Why are we here?”

Erica looks up at the full moon and shrugs, not able to come up with an answer. Out on the field, she feels like she's part of something bigger than herself, and when she carried that ball across the goal line it was like she carried the hearts of everyone on her team with her. She thinks she just wanted to keep that feeling going for a little bit longer.

She doesn't tell Boyd that, though.

“Because we're losers who are somehow popular and TV has told us this is what we should be doing.”

Boyd agrees.

“You know,” Boyd starts, after a few minutes of silence. “I don't think I've ever told you that I'm proud of you.”

“Oh my god, please shut up,” Erica begs.

“No, this is important,” he cuts her off. “You're an amazing football player, and you've never let anyone or your disability stop you from doing that. Even in Middle School, you refused to let anyone change you, and I just think you're a complete and total bad ass. I'm sorry that I never told you that.”

“It's not something that you've ever really had to tell me,” Erica shrugs. “I sorta just wish that me playing football wasn't seen as this big deal, you know? Like. No one cares that you play football, you know what I mean? It's sort of expected of you. But me? No. People see me in a jersey and think I'm supporting my boyfriend. I just wish that I could play without all the stares.”

Boyd doesn't seem to know what to say to that. He lifts one of his huge arms and wraps it around her, pulling her tight against his side. He's warm in the night air, and Erica shuffles closer to him, stealing his warmth.

“Thanks, though,” Erica says. “It's nice to know you think I belong on a pedestal.”

“I never said-”

“The people _should_ write songs of my heroic deeds.”

“Really-”

“I _do_ deserve a monument, you're completely right.”

“I hate you.”

Erica laughs, loud and long and soon Boyd joins in. They curl closer together, creating a bubble of warmth between them, something that's only broken by the loud bang of a heavy door opening.

“Fuck you, Jackson!” A girl shouts, voice shrill with tears.

Erica and Boyd immediately jump to attention at that, the words pulling them from their own world. Erica's eyes hone in on the girl, shocked to see that it's Lydia Martin, with tears in her eyes and a frown on her face. Erica has never seen Lydia like this before, never seen her lose her mask of careful composure.

Jackson comes out the door next, looking disheveled and annoyed. He stalks over to Lydia with too much intimidation in his stance, giving her a look that Erica has seen guys throw her way all the time, like they want to put her in her place. She stands up and stomps over, stopping Jackson's march with a firm hand to his shoulder.

“Back up, Reyes,” Jackson snarls, and Erica's hand twitches into a fist, wanting to punch him in his stupid face. “This isn't any of your business.”

“The hell it isn't. She's crying and you look like you just barely remembered to pull your pants on.”

That stops Jackson short. He steps back, hands in the air and on the defense. “Woah, calm down. I didn't fucking touch her.”

Boyd's a solid weight behind her, ready to jump in if necessary. Erica can feel his disapproving stare but she doesn't care, not when Lydia looks like her heart has been stepped on too many times tonight.

Erica keeps a steady grip on Jackson's shoulder and turns to Lydia, awaiting confirmation. Jackson tries to slide out of her grip but he underestimates her, as most guys do. Erica does weight lifting three times a week, and often tackles guys the size of Boyd. She's strong. He doesn't get away.

Lydia looks like she's ready to break down again, but has composed herself into a careful mask. “No,” she says, sounding tired, “He didn't. We just got into an argument. Too much alcohol.”

“Yeah,” Jackson hisses like the snake he is, “Because you're a fucking slu-”

Erica doesn't give him time to finish that. She turns quickly, fist flying before she can double think it. She hits him hard in the side of the face, and pulls back. Before he can recover, she has another one flying at his abdomen, aiming for his liver. His stomach is toned, but she knows how to throw a punch from years of roughhousing with guys to prove herself. He goes down, clutching at his side and cursing.

“Are you okay?” Erica asks her. Lydia looks at her incredulously in response, and it's only then that Erica feels the throbbing pain in her hand.

She looks down, sees that her skin is blooming bright red. She only hopes it isn't broken.

“You didn't need to do that,” Lydia says, staring at Jackson with too much pity. “He was just drunk. He didn't mean it.”

“He's a piece of shit and he shouldn't have been talking to you like that,” Erica says emphatically.

“We broke up a few weeks ago. He heard me talking to Jessica about liking someone else-”

Erica refuses to feel anything about that, barreling on, “Oh, so he's a _possessive_ dirt bag? That's not okay, Lydia. You shouldn't have to babysit his feelings.”

“Fuck you, Reyes,” Jackson whines pathetically.

Lydia shakes her head, “I'm not excusing him. You're right. He's a jerk. Don't you think I know that? Why do you think I broke up with him?” That stops Erica short. “His dad's a lawyer, idiot. Forgive me for not wanting you to get dropped with an assault charge.”

“Erica, we need to get out of here,” Boyd says. Erica looks up at him, then follows his line of sight. People are against the windows of the house, cellphones pulled out and locked on the scene she's made.

Erica looks back at Lydia, “Do you need a ride home?”

She shakes her head, “Allison's driving me. Get out of here before someone calls the cops.”

The last thing Erica wants to do is leave Lydia right now, but Boyd doesn't give her much choice.

* * *

Five minutes into a sullen car ride, and all Erica can say is, “Oh my god. I'm such a cliché right now.”

Boyd gives her the dirtiest look.

* * *

Practice the next morning should have been full of slaps on the butt and congratulations, but it was strangely silent. No one knew if they should talk to Erica or avoid her, and only Boyd, Isaac, and Danny talked to her. Everyone else gave her varying degrees of cold looks, and even Coach seemed to pick up on mood.

“Don't worry about them, kid,” Coach says to her. “They're all just jealous. They wish they had as much talent as you have in your pinkie toe.”

He slaps her on the shoulder and blows his whistle, signaling the start of a new training position. Erica wishes she believed him. The do a brisk jog and then spend the rest of the day watching tapes of their next team, and Erica doesn't take her eyes off the screen.

* * *

Erica doesn't tell her parents about the fight, but they somehow find out through the beauty of technology on a calm Sunday morning.

“What's this?” Her mother asks, holding up an Ipad.

“It's an Ipad.” Erica says patiently.

Angela Reyes gives her a very impatient look. She taps on the screen and the black image suddenly turns into a shaky camera video, and Erica tries to watch, unfeeling, as she punches Jackson Whittemore twice and lectures at Lydia.

By the time the video is over, Erica is cringing.

“I knew it was a bad idea to friend you on Facebook,” Erica grouches.

“You're fighting?” Her mother demands, willfully ignoring her utter lack of care. “Is this what you do now? Getting tackled by guys every night wasn't good enough, now you're fighting them?”

Erica tries very hard to not hear the innuendo. “Mom, it's not like that!”

“Oh dios mío, mi niña está convirtiendo en un criminal,” her mother whispers under her breath.

“I am not turning into a criminal!” Erica demands. “Did you even watch the whole thing? He was being a di- jerk to her.”

Her mother raises an eyebrow at the stutter, “That doesn't mean you had to punch him! Look, while I am proud I have raised such an amazing daughter, I would really appreciate it if you didn't assault people.”

“So what should I have done, mom?” Erica asks, tiredly.

“I've always told you: use your words. Violence isn't the answer.”

“Are you aware that you sound like a Disney Channel show?”

“And you're grounded,” her mother says, voice hard as ice. She crosses her arms, “I read a report just the other day about how high blood pressure and seizures are linked. What if you started seizing? Do you think that boy would have decided this was over? You should be avoiding things like this, they raise your heart rate.”

“Life raises my heart rate, mom.” Erica grunts. She gets up from her bed just to move, needing to get this frustration out of her. Her mom will never understand. “I can't live in a plastic bubble just because I _might_ have a seizure. I'm not going to plan my entire life around this!”

She's ready to go, words forming on her tongue and lips ready to say them, stubbornly planting her feet down for a long argument she intends to win, but her mom says something that sucks the wind out of her sails.

“I think you should quit football.”

Erica stops breathing. Blinks at her. Her mom has always hinted at this, but she's never said it outright before.

“It's too big of a risk, baby,” her mother says, sounding like she's rehearsed this in a mirror. “I'm sorry, I just want to protect you.”

She feels like she's being gutted.

“I know you do,” Erica says, numbly. “But what's the point of living if I'm just existing? Football makes me happy, mom. I'm not quitting.”

Angela shakes her head, “I can't support you in this. I'm not going to your games anymore. I can't watch you, waiting for you to be hurt.”

Erica doesn't say anything. What can she say? Her mom leaves the room, sniffling into her shirt sleeve.

No. Forget that. Erica refuses to be guilted out of this. She has given up so much for her mother, has made so many allowances just because of her epilepsy. She's not letting this control her, or make her decisions for her. She has a life to live, dammit, and she wants to live it as best as she can.

Epilepsy or no epilepsy. Mom or no mom.

When Erica begged to join the two-hand-touch football games in elementary school, almost no one batted an eye. Little girls don't understand gender roles, and the ones who show a lack of regard for the subtle manipulation normally grow out of it by fifth grade.

Besides, the coach had told her mom, it's not like she could get hurt too badly. And even if she did, it'd be a good thing. Girls don't like getting hurt or dirty. It would discourage her from the game.

So Erica's parents let her play, even if it was at their reluctance. They waited with baited breath, but Erica never grew out of her love. In fact, she seemed to fall deeper into it, rooting for teams on Football Sunday and asking for sports memorabilia for her birthdays.

“Let me guess,” the seventh grade flag football coach asked her with a sharp grin, “Your daddy always wanted a boy, didn't he?”

His words were too mean for his kind smile, and Erica didn't understand how to respond to them. She would, eventually, after the question was asked too many times, after she got tired of saying the same thing, but as a tiny seventh grader who just wanted to play a game, she looked up at him with confusion.

Her coach shook his head and moved on, and Erica later overheard him telling his assistant that the PTA would make a big stink about it if he didn't let her on the team. It didn't matter that she was fast or agile or could catch a ball even with boys grappling for her flags. Her deigned to let her on the team just so he didn't catch any flak for keeping her off of it.

Erica learned early that her road was one less traveled. She once googled 'girl football leagues' and all that came up was lingerie ads, and women posed provocatively. She learned that she wasn't seen as a valued player unless she was showing cleavage.

She has fought so hard to be where she is. She has faced so many snide looks, so many judgmental glares, and hate filled comments. Boys and men and even women will never stop trying to push her out of this space that she has carved out for herself, but she had always had her parents there, cheering her on. Her mother took to the PTA when the coach of 8th grade tackle football was worried about her getting hurt, and her dad was never hesitant to speak up against other children's parents when they made comments about her.

Erica knows that if she wasn't epileptic, her mother wouldn't be thrilled with Erica's love, but she would be supportive. Erica curses, hating her body for what it's taken from her, will always take from her. She resents her mother, too, for hiding behind her fears, for wanting to trap Erica in a house and closing her off from every possible trigger.

It's not as if Erica doesn't know the statistics. She knows how often people die from SUDEP. She knows that she plays fast and loose with her disease, and takes risks that she shouldn't. But her seizures are controlled. She hadn't had a grand mal in two years before that night on the field, and she hasn't even had a petite mal since then. She takes her medicine. She follows her meal plan. She has regular check ups with her doctor. Erica does everything right, and this is her one allowance.

She sighs and doesn't even look at her mother before leaving for school on Monday morning.

* * *

“I want her off the team,” Mr. Whittemore is in full business suit, hair perfectly coiffed and serious expression on. Erica looks at him from her seat, trying to appear small and helpless like she knows men like to see her. It's not working. “She's obviously out of control. Think of what would happen if she hurt someone like that on the field!”

“Mr. Whittemore, football is a contact sport,” Coach starts, looking deeply troubled, “If Erica does hurt someone like she hurt your son, then she's doing her job.”

The principle shakes her head, as if Coaches comment hurts her very being.

“She attacked my son with no provocation!” Mr. Whittemore says loudly. Jackson shoots her a smug look behind his back, showing her the gross, splotch of blue across his temple. Erica can't take it anymore.

“Your son was verbally abusing his ex girlfriend. Was I supposed to just stand by and do nothing?” Erica asks the principle. Her father, sitting stoically beside her, looks at her as if he's unsure of who she is.

“Now, my son may have said some harsh things, and I promise you he will be dealt with, but I will not stand around and let his character be besmirched like this! He has never once said a bad word to Ms. Martin that I know of. He was an upset boy, dealing with a bad breakup. After all-”

"What are you going to say?” Erica demands. “Boys will be boys? That's not an excuse, and calling Lydia a slut and who knows what else he said to her that night is not boy being upset, it's a dude who has some seriously bad anger issues lashing out against a teenage girl for breaking up with him.”

The room freezes at her words and Erica sits back, pleased with herself. She remembers the indignation that rose up in her Friday night, remembers the tears in Lydia's eyes. Honestly, fuck Jackson for doing that, and he can go to hell for pulling this stunt. She's not one of those people who looks up at him like he's God's gift to the Earth, and she's not going to be cowed by his ego or his money or his lawyer daddy.

Mr. Whittemore opens his mouth, face red with fury, but the principle is quick to cut him off.

“I've heard enough from both of you,” she says, voice calm, yet firm. She sighs, “While it is unbecoming for students to fight, I cannot do anything. This event happened outside of school grounds and is out of my jurisdiction. I will recommend, though, that Erica and Jackson both be removed from any classes they share together, and expect them to have no further troubles. Is that clear you two?”

Erica, relieved and surprised that she hasn't granted herself an infinite amount of detentions at this point, nods quickly to her principle. Jackson does the same, after a moment of hesitation and a glare from his father.

“If Ms. Reyes was a boy, this matter would have been handled completely differently,” Mr. Whittemore spits. “But of course we live in a society that sees a woman hitting a man as hilarious or cute. What a shame. My son was badly injured, and you're telling me there is nothing you can do about it?”

Erica's eyes widen. Never before has her being a girl been used like _this_. Is it true, she wonders? She looks at the bruise on Jackson's face, wonders if there's another below his shirt. If Jackson had punched her, not that Erica would let him off for such an offense, but if he had, how much trouble would he be in? She thinks that if her parents made half of a deal out of the situation as Mr. Whittemore was, then Jackson probably wouldn't even be in this school anymore.

“You just hold on one second,” Erica's father, Samuel, speaks up. It's the first time he's done so since stepping foot in the office. “Are you honestly trying to flip the tables here? Your son verbally attacked his girlfriend, and I saw the video, Mr. Whittemore, as I'm sure you have. It looks like he was well and prepared to go beyond that.”

“If you're insinuating-”

“I'm not. My daughter did the right thing, and I'm outraged that you want her to be punished for it. Your son is obviously out of control, and it seems he has a father who is willing to protect him from anyone putting him in his place. That's fine, if that's the child you want to raise, but I have always taught my daughter to defend herself, and to help anyone who isn't in a place to do it themselves. I'm not going to punish her for this, and I'm not going to let her attend a school that is willing to either.”

Samuel Reyes is a calm man. Erica has only ever heard him raise his voice a handful of times in her life, and she's never once heard him angry. Her father is a quiet man, one who married a loud, happy wife to talk for him, but she refused to come to the school today, and Erica is wonderfully surprised to find that her father is not going to roll over and apologize like her mother might.

Erica thinks that Angela, who has always been proud, but never understood, would have agreed with Whittemore in a misguided attempt to get her off the team.

Mr. Whittemore looks like a tomato at this point, “How dare you say such things about my family-”

“Everybody just calm down, okay?” Coach asks, slapping his hand down against the principle's desk. She gives him a hard look but Coach ignores it. “What we have here are two brilliant, talented athletes, who may have gotten a little over their heads. Everybody can respect that, right? Kids fight. This happens. I think we should all give them a warning, and move on.”

“It's not that easy,” Mr. Whittemore starts, only to be cut off yet again.

“I'm making it that easy,” the principle says. “Frankly, Mr. Whittemore, I know your son. I've known him for the past three years to be cocky, arrogant, and rude. He's a bright boy, and a gifted athlete, but he has little to no social graces, and consistently preys upon weaker classmates to gain social standing. He is a bully, and while it is wrong of Erica to attack him as she did, I have to say that he should never disrespect a woman like that. What did his mother have to say about the video?”

Erica looks at Jackson, watches him close his eyes as if in pain.

Mr. Whittemore waves a hand, “That doesn't matter. What matters here is that my son was attacked by another one of your student and I want to see them brought to justice!”

“Fine.” The principle says. She waves a hand, “But if I'm holding Erica responsible for something that occurred outside of school grounds, it's only fair that I hold Jackson to the same standards, and considering that he was verbally attacking another student and under the influence of alcohol, I'm afraid his punishment would be far greater than hers. Is that what you want?”

Mr. Whittemore seems at a loss for words. Erica is in the same boat as him on that matter.

“This isn't the last of this,” he says. He grabs Jackson around the arm and pulls him up, slamming the door with them on his way out.

The room is quiet after they leave, tension thick and angry, only broken by Erica's dad dropping a firm hand on her shoulder.

“I'm proud of you,” he tells her, and Erica gives him a weak smile.

She looks back to the door, feeling hollow for some reason she can't describe.

* * *

Erica is followed by stares and whispers the entire day, and she catches more than one person watching the video on their cell phone, snickering behind their hands. They call Jackson a wimp, and call Erica even worse things.

She ignores them as best as she can, feeling like a protagonist in a teen movie. Scandal, fist fights, adversity- she has all the dramatic plot points at the ready.

Boyd catches her at lunch, gripping her elbow tight. He waits for her to smile at him before relaxing, breathing out a large breath of air.

“I thought for sure you'd get kicked out,” he says, sounding relieved.

Erica laughs, “Yeah, they'd have to drag me from this team kicking and screaming.”

She doesn't tell him about the things Mr. Whittemore said, or the bruise on Jackson's face, or how she feels like she's being sucked into a bottomless pit. She just lets him lead her to their lunch table, trying hard to put this entire day behind her.

“There she is!” Cora says, as soon as their eyes meet. Erica fakes a large grin. “The woman of the hour! Seriously. Tell me everything. Was it amazing? How did it feel finally giving that douche bag what was coming to him? God, I wish I could have been there.”

Erica shrugs, “You watched the video. You saw what happened.”

“Of course I watched the video. I've been glued to it since-” Cora stops short suddenly, leaning back as if stricken. “What's wrong? Why aren't you happy?”

Erica will never understand how Cora is able to do stuff like that. In a town as small as Beacon Hill's, there's bound to be rumors about the families who've been here since the town was founded. One of the popular ones was that the Hale's had a great, great, great grandmother who was a witch. Erica would believe it, knowing just how weirdly psychic Cora can be sometimes.

“Just family stuff,” Erica decides on a half truth. “My mom's not too thrilled about the video.”

“Here's something that's bound to cheer you up,” Boyd rumbles quietly. “Your favorite cheerleader is on her way over here.”

Erica got bumped from her third period economics class, because Jackson got moved from their shared first period Chemistry class and their counselors decided it was “only fair.” As such, Erica hasn't seen Lydia all day today. She cringes in her seat, remembering Lydia's smile as she gave her game winning advice, and the way her tears looked against her cheeks as Jackson chased her out of the house. They vacillated between such major extremes the other night that she wasn't sure if Lydia would ever talk to her again, and still she holds her breath, waiting for Lydia to chew her out for being such an _idiot_.

“Hi.” Lydia says upon arrival. Erica looks up at her, the sun perfectly framing her face. “Can we talk? In private?”

Her stomach drops to her feet. Erica turns to Boyd and Erica, both giving her expectant looks.

“Uh. Sure.” Erica spits out clumsily. She stands and follows Lydia from the lunch tables to the lockers, where only a few people are hanging out.

Lydia leans back against the lockers, sighing loudly. It makes Erica's heart hurt to hear the noise, and she wishes she could make it better somehow.

“I'm sorry,” Erica finds herself saying, even though she's never been one to apologize, especially when she's in the right. “About making you the queen of drama town- not about beating up your boyfriend.”

There. That's more like her. Erica nods, happy with the statement.

Lydia chokes out a laugh, “ _Ex_ boyfriend. We broke up the other week, although we break up so much that Jackson sort of. Forgot. That's why he was so,” she gestures to her clothing, reminding Erica the way his shirt was unbuttoned, his pants halfway off his hips. “I reminded him, quite bitchily, and he. Didn't take it well.”

Erica wonders what else Jackson said to her before Erica intervened, wonders what he would have kept saying to her if she wasn't there.

“I'm not trying to stick my nose in your personal life,” Erica starts, even though she was, she really was, “But maybe this should be the last time you guys break up? Maybe make it permanent?”

“It is. Especially after what he pulled the other night.” Lydia shakes her head, and Erica swears she sees tears in her eyes before Lydia blinks them away. “I'm so sorry that you had to get involved in that. God, I was so worried you'd get kicked off the team, or expelled. I tried talking to Jackson about it but it seemed to make him even more determined to get back at you.”

“He's a giant asshole,” Erica confirms, but still her stomach twists, remembering the accusation that Whittemore hurled at her. If she was a boy, what would happen? Was she really in the wrong, even though she was right? “I don't know how you stayed with him so long.”

Lydia shrugs, “Guilt? Self loathing? Some weird idea of what love was supposed to be? I don't know. We fought pretty much all the time. It really wasn't healthy.”

It doesn't take a detective to figure that out. Erica refrains from saying as much.

“But. Yeah. I just wanted to say thank you. Really. Not too many people would get between Jackson and I when he was in one of his moods.” Lydia says with a small smile. She crosses her arms over her chest and, not for the first time, Erica worries that maybe that wasn't a one time incident.

“You don't need to thank me for that,” Erica tells her. “You shouldn't have to. Actually, I wanted to thank you. Your advice on Friday night? Really helped us out during the game. Really, the only reason we won was because of you.”

“Don't make me take all the glory,” Lydia winks at her, sending Erica's heart into over time. “You did some of the work.”

“Still. It was above and beyond the call of duty for a cheerleader,” Erica laughs.

“I don't want to cheer for a loser team,” Lydia says. She pushes off from the locker and drops her hands to her sides. “And I expect you to do better next game. That was some sloppy work out there, Reyes. Really, you're lucky I took pity on you.”

“Yeah, I'd be a social outcast if you hadn't saved me,” Erica snorts.

Lydia laughs and sighs again, "Hey, I got to get back to my study group, I have a huge test next period. But, thanks. Again. For everything," and with one more look, she disappears around the corner, high ponytail bouncing and skirt fluttering in the light breeze. Erica leans against the lockers as she watches her go, an odd feeling swelling in her chest.

Maybe everything about this shitty situation was worth it, if just for Lydia's smile.

 


End file.
